A Good Day to Marry a Duke Page 7

  “You cannot possibly—this is no business for a lady,” he said, then glanced anxiously at Bessie, who had begun to make odd panting noises. His eyes flew wide.

  “Rope, we need heavy rope,” Daisy ordered, turning him by the shoulders and shoving him toward the stall opening. “Or chains.”

  He halted, staring at Bessie with distress, and Daisy barked: “Now.”

  A second later, he scrambled out of the shed and headed for the barn. While he was gone, Daisy knelt beside Bessie’s head and stroked her stoic face. “It’s all right, girl. We’re going to get your baby out, safe and sound. It may be your first, but I’ve been through this dozens of times.”

  A sudden, powerful wave of feeling swept her, taking her back in time and across an ocean, taking her to spring calving, first-calf heifers, and a stirring of new life that made everything seem possible. For the first time in months, she was intensely homesick. How many times had she sat at a cow’s head with a lantern while the ranch hands hauled a calf into the world? How many times had they relented and let her help because they needed an extra pair of hands? Old Jake and Lefty and Fred . . . they had treated her like a princess one day and an annoying kid sister the next. If only she could see them, hear them laugh, and have a snort of whiskey with them again.

  The professor came running back with two ropes, one of which seemed sturdy enough. She switched to the business end of the birthing and prayed she remembered the wrap and knots correctly.

  “Are you certain you know what you are doing, young woman?”

  When she looked up, the professor was teetering between imperious skepticism and naked hope. The way he wrung his hands—he was still uncertain he should be allowing a young female to meddle in such messy business. When she tugged on the ropes to test the knots, his eyes bulged. The impact of what they were about to do finally struck.

  “Been pullin’ calves since I was knee-high to a prairie dog.”

  “You’re going to pull the calf out?” He staggered a step.

  “We’re going to do it—you and me, Professor.”

  He produced a handkerchief and mopped sweat from his brow and she took a moment to tuck her skirts back out of the way.

  “We wait for the next contraction—till the legs start coming out again—and then we pull like their lives depend on it, because they do.”

  They positioned themselves and waited until the legs started to move. They started to pull. “Harder—put your back into it!” she shouted. Despite their best efforts, the legs halted and slid back inside.

  “Don’t die on me, Bessie!” the professor pleaded, rushing to stroke the cow’s head. “If you’ll just help me get this calf out, right and proper, I’ll never pester you with Aristotle again!”

  “We need help, another strong back,” Daisy said, thinking of Uncle Red, back at the cottage, and maybe the coachman. But, both were on the downhill side of fifty and no longer used to physical exertion. Then she looked up and found a tall, broad-shouldered answer to their dilemma bearing down them.

  At that moment, in the brilliant morning sun, she could have sworn Ashton Graham had a halo of light around his imposing frame. The sure, confident way he walked, the sway of those shoulders . . . By the time he reached the shed, she had to struggle to shake off that unsettling effect.

  “Just in time,” she greeted him. “Take off your coat and get in here.”

  * * *

  Ashton battled through momentary confusion, taking in the half-delivered cow, his old professor’s anxiety, and Daisy Bumgarten’s rolled sleeves and partly raised skirts.

  “Good God, Miss Bumgarten.” He stood gripping the sides of his half-shed suit coat, already complying with her demand. “What have you—”

  “Now, Mr. Graham.”

  She turned her attention back to the cow and he found himself entering the shed hatless and in shirtsleeves. She explained that the heifer’s calf was too big and they were waiting for the next contraction to begin pulling again. He stared at her in disbelief.

  “You expect me to . . .”

  “I most certainly do,” she said emphatically, and for a moment those blue eyes contained a flash of lightning.

  Her sleeves were rolled to the elbows, her half-tucked skirt was littered with straw, and her skin was flushed with warmth. Her honey-blond hair was being teased out of its proper coif by contact with her standing collar. He couldn’t recall ever seeing a woman in such circumstances, but he couldn’t imagine any of his numerous female acquaintances looking more appealing than Daisy Bumgarten while pulling a calf out of a cow.

  He positioned himself on the rope behind Daisy and before the professor, and began to pull when she gave the order. “Harder.” So he wrapped his hand with the rope and really put his back into it.

  The legs didn’t retreat fully this time and Daisy shot a grin over her shoulder.

  “It’s working. We may get it with this next round.”

  In fact, two more contractions were required to convince Bessie’s body to finally heave the calf out onto the straw. The sudden release sent Ashton and the professor thudding back against the shed wall and Daisy falling back atop Ashton. As she struggled up, she flashed a smile at him and headed for the calf and Bessie. He lay against the wall, stunned, feeling the lingering imprint of her body against him and her hand on his thigh as she pushed away.

  The little beast was dark and wet, but it already moved and gasped for its first taste of air.

  “Get up, girl, you’ve got to see him—he’s beautiful!” she coaxed the mother as the little calf struggled to his feet. “And he needs a good licking.”

  * * *

  Ashton got to his feet and helped the professor up. Together they watched in silence as Bessie inspected and cleaned her calf. It wasn’t long before the calf was attempting to stand on legs that were hugely out of proportion to the rest of him.

  “Purely miraculous,” Huxley whispered, his voice choked. “Good job, my girl—good job!” He rushed toward them and Daisy braced with expectation. But he lurched past her and threw his arms around the little cow’s neck.

  A soft smile lit her face as she watched the professor blink away tears and mumble thanks for Bessie’s safe delivery. Her cheeks were rosy, her lips curved into a perfect bow, and her eyes—those blue eyes were suddenly as clear and fathomless as a summer sky. Ashton stared, spellbound.

  She looked like a Madonna . . . soft and appealing, giving and wise in a way he’d never seen in a flesh and blood woman. Moments later she stepped in to dry the little calf with some straw and then the hem of her skirt. She laughed as the calf nuzzled her, and the full, throaty sound sent ripples of reaction beneath his skin.

  “Not me, little fella. Your ma’s the one with the chuck wagon.” Ashton had no idea what that meant—some god-awful Americanism, no doubt—but she looked up at him with such genuine delight, he couldn’t help but smile.

  “Isn’t he beautiful?” she asked in a voice that was pure music. “So new, so perfect.” A second later she was on her knees beside the little beast, running bare hands over his sturdy little frame and knobby legs.

  The professor joined her in adoring the newborn and together they giggled like children. For a moment, Ashton was drawn into it with them, aroused in soft places he had forgotten existed inside him. His chest grew tight and his knees were a little spongy. He stood absorbing the wonder of the moment until Huxley turned to Daisy and snatched her hands into his.

  “Thank you, thank you, dear lady. Don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t happened along. I owe you a debt.” He looked chagrined. “And I don’t even know your name.”

  “Daisy Bumgarten, Professor. From Nevada. In the States.”

  The bottom dropped out of Ashton’s stomach.

  The Grand Old Man of English History, the feared “Hatchet of Scholarly Hopes,” the once dreaded Don of Doom . . . blubbering over a cow and slathering gratitude on a dollar princess who fancied herself an expert in bovine midwifer
y. What the hell happened to his razor-tongued old mentor?

  Never mind Huxley—what the hell had happened to him?

  Chapter Eight

  Rattled and not a little appalled by his momentary wallow in sentimentality—over a cow—Ashton tugged down his vest, snatched up his coat and hat, and strode out of the shed. He was halfway up the path to the cottage when he realized he was leaving Huxley in Daisy Bumgarten’s clutches. Making an abrupt about-face, he retraced his steps and arrived just in time to hear Daisy extracting an agreement from Huxley to meet her at the Bodleian Library to review documents from his former collection. That took a moment to sink in. His crusty old tutor had donated his remarkable collection of primary source documents to a library?

  “All of it? Even your collection of letters?” he said, staggering mentally.

  “All of it,” Huxley said proudly. “I had my go at it, and I’m on to far more worthy and profound things.”

  “Like cows,” Ash said shortly, working to keep the curl from his lips.

  “Like cows,” Huxley echoed, with unabashed pleasure before turning to Daisy. “You must stay to luncheon, my dear.” He swept Ashton along with Daisy toward the cottage. “And you, too, Ashton. We must have something of a celebration. My first calf, delivered safely. Thanks to our clever Miss Bumgarten.”

  * * *

  Well, this wasn’t going the way he’d planned.

  Ashton sat back from the modest dinner table in Huxley’s cottage and schooled his features. He had intended to reach the old boy first, appeal to his scholarly prejudices in explaining Daisy Bumgarten’s search, and recruit his professorial pride in opposition to her. But he hadn’t counted on Huxley having retired to the blessed back of beyond, and she got here first. Now his old tutor was babbling on about the glories of nature and the duty of mankind to “dress, till, and keep” the earth. A biblical imperative, he called it. His mentor had taken a dive into religious philosophy in his waning days and hadn’t yet surfaced.

  “Arcadia is what it’s called. Creation unspoiled,” Huxley explained. “Humankind living in a sylvan paradise, in harmony with the Almighty, and nature, and with one another. A veritable Garden of Eden. The Greats have all written about it, and artists of every age have attempted to capture it.” He got a far-off look in his eyes that made Ashton want to shake him. “Of course, I can only glimpse it here . . . times like today . . . rare, luminous hints of the glory that can be.”

  “Yeah, well, glory some days,” Redmond Strait put in before taking another gulp of wine. “Hellish heat, struggle, and pain other days. Ever seen what’s left of a cow after a mountain lion gets through with it?”

  The professor looked taken aback and Daisy quickly intervened.

  “I believe what Uncle Red means is: some places are more like this ‘Arcadia’ than others. Out west, things get pretty rough at times. It’s eat-or-be-eaten most days. Mountain lions, wolves, bears, coyotes, buzzards—all kinds of varmints have an eye on a rancher’s stock.”

  “Why, I recall times, back in my prospectin’ days—” Red launched into a tale of his adventures in Nevada’s mountains and flats that had the professor wide-eyed with both horror and fascination.

  Ashton watched with ill-concealed annoyance as the pair charmed his old tutor with outlandish stories of western grit and bravado . . . fabricated, no doubt. He would have called a halt or strode out, but Daisy Bumgarten’s glances at him during the telling reminded him that he was here for her . . . to enchant and distract her. Right now there was nothing he wanted more than to abandon this whole ridiculous mission.

  “So, hardly a place for civilized folk, this ‘West’ of yours,” Ashton said when Red paused for another swig of wine.

  “A place where men have to be strong to survive,” Daisy countered with a fierce little smile. “And women have to be even stronger.”

  “Speaking of women”—Ashton turned to Huxley—“Miss Bumgarten is in search of a forbearer, one Charlotte Fitzroy. I take it you have agreed to help her look for documentation of that connection.”

  “I believe there may be documents in my collection pertaining to such issue.” Huxley dragged his attention from Red long enough to reply.

  “Well, that will be interesting,” Ashton said with a small smile. “Considering there are two Charlotte Fitzroys.”

  “What?” Daisy sat forward, all attention now. “Two Charlottes?”

  “Indeed. And it’s always been something of a muddle to figure out which is being referred to in a given document, right, Professor?”

  “Ah. I recall now; one a Countess of Yarmouth and the other a Countess of Lichfield . . . both sired by Charles the Second.”

  “Both named Charlotte?” Daisy looked with dismay to the countess.

  “A feminine derivative of ‘Charles,’” Ashton said, trying to hide his pleasure. “Royal mistresses were keen to attach their offspring to their fathers via names, and Charles had numerous mistresses. The trick, Miss Bumgarten, will be to discover which, if any, contributed to your line.”

  * * *

  “Low down, egg-suckin’ weasel,” Daisy muttered as she rode up to the whitewashed stable that served Holloway House. She had ridden furiously on the way back, abandoning Red and the countess in the coach to let Dancer stretch his legs and work off some of her own tension in the process. She was windblown and overheated and determined to make sure Ashton Graham—she refused to call him “Lord Ashton”—didn’t interfere with her quest for documentation of her ancestry. She should have guessed something was up when he so helpfully volunteered the professor’s name and whereabouts.

  She slid from Dancer’s back and waved away the stable boy. She’d handle her own tack and brush down her horse. Despite the countess’s horror, she insisted on doing it regularly. She found it calming. Grounding. And if she were going to get through this next couple of weeks, she needed to have both feet planted squarely in her greater purpose. Besides, English saddles were easy to heft compared to the western ones she’d grown up on.

  With each stroke of the brush, some of her anxiety melted away. She paused to stroke Dancer’s head and ears and pressed her forehead against his. Her heartbeat slowed as she murmured softly into his neck. The smell and the sturdy feel of him brought back memories of home. Her real home, in Nevada. The dry, rugged landscape, the painted sky—every color in creation strewn across the sunset—the smell of horses and leather, of ever-present dust and mesquite; it was a feast for the senses. It was a beautiful and proud, difficult and unapologetic land . . . not for the soft or self-obsessed. How she wished that she could go back to the ranch for a few short hours—immerse herself in the smells of coffee boiling and bacon sizzling in the—

  “Tsk, tsk,” a voice broke the quiet. “What would the countess say?”

  She turned with a start and found Ashton Graham leaning against the stall opening, his arms folded and his eyes roaming her with speculation.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded, flushing with heat.

  “Stabling my horse.”

  “Here?”

  “I am staying at Holloway House, and this is their livery.” He turned that assessing gaze on Dancer and the curry brush in her hand. “They have staff to see to that, you know.”

  “I prefer to do it myself,” she said, drawing herself up straighter. “Dancer means a great deal to me, and where I come from, a person sees to his or her own horse. It’s a personal obligation that begets a personal bond. You take care of your horse and your horse takes care of you.”

  “And does he?” He had that look in his eyes, that bone-melting, meet-me-in-the-hayloft kind of look. “Take care of you?”

  “He will if the time comes,” she said, wishing the varmint wasn’t so close or so tall or so damned male. Parts of her she was determined to ignore began to tingle. Unrepentantly. Curse his broad, nubile lips.... It was something of a task to watch him talk without licking her own in anticipation. As she struggled with her responses, he moved cl
oser and ran a hand over Dancer’s hip and down his flank.

  “Beautiful animal,” he murmured, closer still. Then his gaze transferred to her and his deepening tones invaded her skin. “Every line pure perfection.”

  “You don’t have to be much of a judge of horseflesh to see that.” She took a step back, scowling. “He’s the best damned stallion in the state of Nevada . . . maybe in the whole western U.S.”

  “Quite a claim.” He slid closer, watching her like a hawk does a rabbit.

  She retreated around Dancer, giving his head a stroke as she ducked beneath the stall rope. “My daddy—God rest his soul—was a keen judge of horseflesh and bought a couple of Arabians to breed into our quarter horses. Midnight Dancer, here, is a result.” She busied her hands with the brush, giving Dancer long, firm strokes that hid the way her hand trembled. “Strength and nimble footwork paired with increased endurance. Silver River horses are known all the way to Sacramento and San Francisco.”

  “Silver River?”

  “The name of our ranch: Silver River. That’s what water looks like coming down over rocks in the mountains. Pure silver. And that’s where our money came from: silver.” She looked up from brushing and he was ducking under the stall rope himself, running hands over Dancer like he was in a buying mood. She’d nip that in the bud. “He’s not for sale.”

  “Everything has a price, Silver Girl.” He stopped by her shoulder and she could feel his gaze on her. Every inch of her skin came alive with expectation; she had gooseflesh in places she didn’t want to think about. Curse his hide. Against her own better judgment, she lowered her hand to her side, staring straight ahead, waiting to see what would happen.

  She wasn’t sure what to expect, but it wasn’t the way he ran a knuckle down the side of her face as if he were memorizing it. Nor was it the way he withdrew enough to touch only the wisps of hair the wind had teased out of place during her ride. Along her face, then by her ear, and along the nape of her neck . . . it tickled. Deliciously. It made her want to lean into his hand. She swallowed hard, resisting, until he gave a low, nerve-tingling laugh . . . a wicked sound that said he knew exactly what was happening in her.